Silence was heavier than steel.
The kind of silence that came not from peace, but from too much sound crushed into nothing. The tent still breathed smoke, still glowed from the fever-fire that had burst out of me, but outside, hundreds of men stood mute. Their chants of Break, break, break had fallen away. Only the crackle of torches and the slow clink of armor shifting broke through the night air.
I could feel their eyes. All of them. Piercing through the canvas walls, burning into my skin, weighing me down more than any wound I had suffered.
My legs trembled. My body sagged against Garron's arm. He held me upright, iron grip anchoring me to the earth, but I could feel the twitch of strain in his muscles. I wasn't light. I was dead weight, half-broken, fevered, stinking of blood and sweat and ash.
Still, I had stood.
Still, I had spoken.
I am not broken.
